


Sharp Edges

by Eccentric_Grace



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Tony Stark, Family, Family Feels, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, Spider-Man: Homecoming age, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26112127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eccentric_Grace/pseuds/Eccentric_Grace
Summary: Tony Stark grew up with sharp edges, but now— He is happy. He is whole.(aka: a journey through Tony’s life. The end of this story takes place after Homecoming.)
Relationships: James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	Sharp Edges

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: many people have left this fandom because things are so different now. so, I wanted to write a little oneshot about tony stark, and how he has shaped his life. this oneshot ends after the events of homecoming, because I wanted something nostalgic. something peaceful. something healing. stay safe, drink water, and enjoy:^)

Tony Stark grew up with sharp edges.

Broken puzzle pieces, forced to fit by scotch tape and a welding torch. A family; held in a set of two very different hands, which didn’t fit quite so well together either. 

He grew up with shiny smiles—never the genuine kind. The sort of smile to use when a camera is pointed at your face, and you haven’t gotten sleep but you know you must smile for the picture. Smile for the picture. Smile for the picture. The kind of smile that is uneasily comfortable and uncomfortably easy.

He grew up with bulletproof lunchboxes, made of the same metal his father used to destroy lives of people he would never know. He grew up not to take things from strangers, because he’s been handed one too many explosives in public since the time he turned four.

He grew up hidden behind large scary men who dressed in black suits, who didn’t smile or flinch at a thing. He grew up to always look, always observe, and never turn your back on anything, always use your instincts, alert, observe, aware, alert, observe, aware.

With all of these things combined, a weight was ever present on his shoulders to be the best, or the most impressive, or both. His father wouldn’t let him forget it. His father’s company wouldn’t, either.

Of course, he had supports. His mother; who was more graceful than the gentlest of winds in the spring. Who was nurturing and loving and full of a practiced wisdom that Tony has never been able to replicate, seen replicated, or even understand. She was intelligent, too—played piano prettier than the most expensive of concerts. And all though he wished his mother had left Howard, he knew deep down it wouldn’t ever happen. But he loved his mom. He always will.

He had Jarvis—made of tissues, organs, and bones at this point—who was a man that was the most fathering he’s ever known. When Tony was eleven, shivering in the dark of his room from another nightmare about his dad; Edwin Jarvis (who stayed late on his shift for the night) opened the door and sat on his bed. 

He told Tony stories about Howard; the funny kind that would be perfect in arguments. While Tony knows he could never actually use them against Howard, it was nice to know that the man had the slightest shred of humility—or at least he did at one point.

Howard Stark was, by Tony’s own definition, cold and calculating. Not one ounce of love was gestured to his family. Shows of affection were scarce, other than the firm hand that was placed on Maria’s shoulder in an iron tight grip. Everything was pointed with Mr. Howard Stark, and yet, never the right things. He said things surely, but the most important things were left only to be speculated by imaginative minds.

(One example of this was the three words that were left unsaid by the men in the Stark household. The three words that mean everything and nothing. The three words that made Tony wish that he wasn’t one with an imaginative mind, because if he didn’t imagine things, then it wouldn’t hurt so much that his dreams of his father giving a care in the world about him were at base just those: dreams.)

Nonetheless, the point of the matter stands present as ever. Howard Stark was not one to have humility anymore. He was not one to love, and he was not one to give the world anything but devastation in the end.

Christmas, a holiday which giving good is celebrated and broadcasted, was hated strongly by young Tony Stark, because they were nothing to him but press photos and fake trees that hadn’t a single shiny shimmery box underneath them because his parents hadn’t the time. His father didn’t have the time.

(Empty stockings hung on fireplaces, tended only by Jarvis, who eventually got his own stocking to fill by the time Tony was fourteen. It’s a memory mainly forgotten today, but Jarvis’ stocking is still hung up every year, well into his adulthood.) 

He was seventeen when his world completely shifted on it’s axis. 

There are things that people regret in life, such as how memories slip away. In Tony’s case, he barely had any memories to be faded. There were more of his mom, such as how she would play the piano on rainy days and how she would read him poetry if she had the time. But memories of his dad were held under a dark storm cloud, and he didn’t like to access them unless he absolutely had to.

He enters college as broken pieces of a person, no longer held together by his even more broken father and mother. He hardly ate, he either slept too much or not at all, and he shut himself off from everyone who couldn’t deal with his snark. He got through college only because he was truly and incredibly intelligent, and he needed to prove to himself (although the believed he was proving to his deceased father) that he was better than anyone has ever given him credit for. But, he was still very... broken.

When a person is broken, they tend to have a difficult time trying to break the cycle of broken-ness. But he had Rhodey—who he loved dearly, might he add—who forced him out of bed when he needed it and got him to eat more than anyone else had ever been able to convince him. Together, they manage to get through.

The years pass by in a long blur of time, maybe from alcohol, maybe from trauma. Either way, they do pass, and he comes out of college with half of the company and a full faux personality, complete with the fancy suits he promised himself he wouldn’t ever wear. He hides his broken pieces together with a suave confidence. The press doesn’t suspect a thing.

His childhood is forcefully shoved back; boxed tightly in iron in the back of his mind. Business-Tony does not deal with trauma—that’s what he’s told, by a man who worked alongside with his father. Business-Tony must be only what the press needs him to be. Perfect, from the hair to the shoelaces. 

It takes several painstaking years of rebuilding himself—his personality, his facial expressions, his morals—before he’s suddenly a carbon copy of his father and he doesn’t know any better of it.

Then, nothing matters. Nothing matters, because missiles with his name on them—literally—are bursting in sparks of red and orange, murdering the people he was tricked into believing he was protecting. 

Iron mixes with the taste of saliva, which mixes with the taste of other metals that certainly should not be anywhere inside of his body. His chest is now a magnet, keeping shrapnel by his own weapons from piercing into his heart.

His intelligence has never been limited, but his creativity was the thing to get him out of the desert that year. Creativity, and a man who said something to him that he’ll never forget. 

“Don’t waste your life.”

Tony Stark has never been told anything that stuck more than that. Not any of what his father’s words were meant more to him than that sentence. And none of Howard’s teachings were quite as influential as this.

From then, he starts to pick up the pieces that his past has left behind. They’re not fixable. He knows this. He knows that they have no chance of even coming close to what it was before—but that is not his fault, because the pieces he was given were broken when he got them.

But, if there was one thing Tony Stark can do, it was to make something new. Which is exactly what he did.

His first priority was to stop making weapons of war, instead making highly exclusive weapons of peace—of which he has complete control over. 

He spends time talking to children all over the globe, of all different ethnicities and cultures, building trust and respect to those he has wronged. He donates huge handfuls of money to charities, and while the press has started to side with him, the opinion of the media does nothing for his soul.

After his own conscious was clear enough, he picks up pieces of his own personal life. He has a talk with his best friend. 

(A real talk, like the rare conversations that they had in college where Tony finally would meet the breaking point after a few weeks and explains to Rhodey through choked tears that he really did miss his mom.)

The night swept over Stark tower, and everything seemed cold. Cold, empty, and distant. Tony sat at the barstool, staring at an empty glass. He was sober. He remembered that well.

“Please tell me you aren’t drunk, Tony,” Rhodey sighs heavily as he walks in the room. “JARVIS told me you needed something.”

“I’m not drunk, honey bear.” Tony gives a charismatic grin. He doesn’t take his eyes off the glass, though, raising suspicion.

Rhodey narrows his eyes and walks closer, sitting up next to him at the bar. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m ready.” Tony says quietly. “I—I want to move on, Rhodey. I want to get better. And not just from this,” he gestures to the wall of alcohol in front of him. “But from all of it. I want a good life.”

Rhodey stays still, waiting for him to continue.

Tony sighs, turning to face Rhodey as he speaks. “I want to live. Not for the crappy news outlets, or—or for Stane, but for me. Y’know? I mean, all this time I swore I wouldn’t be my dad, but I—I’m his spitting image.”

“You’re not like your dad, Tony,” Rhodey reminds, gently but with a stern and unwavering voice. “You’re nothing like him. You’re messed up like him, sure, but you are not him.”

Tony looks up at Rhodey, doubt sewn deep in his veins. But this is Rhodey. Rhodey wouldn’t lie to him. He’s never lied. He’s always been there, every step, every fall. Tony laughs breathlessly at the late realization.

“Thank you so much,” Tony shakes his head with disbelief. “Seriously. You’re the best friend I could ask for, and I just... Thank you for putting up with me—especially this long! You’re a true hero, Platypus.”

Rhodes snorts, and hugs him tightly, just like he did when they were in college. And, in casual Rhodey fashion, he says the most simple of words with the most earnest of soul.

“I’m proud of you, Tones.”

It’s a step in the right direction.

He spends time showing love and affection for those around him, working slowly but surely to chip away the parts of ice that Howard left around his heart. 

He asks Pepper on a date; because she is a force to be reckoned with and she has Tony’s utmost respect. She doesn’t take no from an answer, and has the special quality of not caring what Tony thinks. She gets him to listen. Rhodes is the only other person like that.

(He starts sending a kid from Tennessee frequent letters, boxes of materials, and plenty of money for his mom to pay the bills and purchase food every month. Tony signs off every one of his letters with ‘The Mechanic’. The kid writes back every time, informing him about what bullies he fought off recently.)

He starts treating Happy more like a friend—which is what Happy has deserved for putting up with him for years. Happy seemed a bit more like his name after the first few days of Tony’s attempts at friendship, which he takes as a win. A year later and Happy is his second closest friend. (Nobody can take Rhodey’s place.)

Around him, his life seems lighter. A few scares along the way seem to dim the path, but his way to creating a better life for himself is more steady than its ever been before. His friends and family have been created by himself, and he has them tightly knit around him at all times so he doesn’t let go.

The family he’s surrounded himself with grows once the Avengers are established, and while they don’t get along all the time, they work well together when it comes down to the most menacing of threats.

There aren’t many opportunities where sacrifices must be made—but when there is, Tony is stepping forward before anyone can even open their mouth. 

Not because the world now is asking him to; but because all of the people that have been murdered by Tony’s past actions no longer has the ability ask him. He owes it to them. It is not a choice. 

When he isn’t saving the world, he speaks at colleges and universities, showcasing technology and offering internships to the capable candidates he would personally like to see grow. It’s not enough. Especially when people come up to him with their personal stories of loss and blame, and it sends Tony spiraling through guilt all over again.

Guilt eats away more and more, setting his vision more clearly every day. This sturdy path—it is not deserved. There are things he must protect. Things that he must make right first. Only then can he truly live.

So he signs the Accords, hoping to revise the plan in order to stop the Avengers from causing damage over the American cities, or whatever Ross was trying to explain to them at that glass table.

Things don’t work out the way he’s hoped; in the end. Now, the traumas he’s endured no longer exclusively show up in his behaviour. No; now the show up in scars, painted across his body in different colours and different sizes.

One good thing came out of it, though. Yes, one good thing. Just a kid, really—with bright eyes, gelled back curly hair, and a brain that would change the world one day.

Peter Parker had a heart made of gold. He didn’t have a bad thought in his head regarding other people around him, and he cared and loved the world with an innocence that couldn’t be taught. It was admirable, to say the least, but Tony knew in the back of his mind that Peter’s heart was born from a very dark place.

(The kid was also adamant about respect towards him. Which of course, he tolerated at first, but something has never really sat well about a kid he was mentoring calling him ‘Mr. Stark’. 

He knows for a fact this is because of the times he spent in a lab with his own father; never being able to address him as anything but the formalities. 

He never brings it up with Peter, though. He doesn’t need to know any of that. It’s instead brushed off by playfully calling him ‘Mr. Parker’ in return.)

Tony spent quite a lot of time when they were first introduced by not getting too close. After all, his personal mission of stabilizing and creating with his “new life” was twisted sideways once again after the events of the accords, and he couldn’t screw anything up by adopting another pseudo-kid while his head isn’t screwed on all the way right.

He was a very different man, now. Determined to create a life of healing—comfortable and excited with the idea of settling down with Pepper. He also had started getting the occasional dream about having kids, which was ridiculous. 

That couldn’t happen, because if he had kids then he’d surely mess up and become just like his dad: a humble husband turned something much darker. He was not going to let that happen. Not ever.

Of course, Peter found his way into Tony’s family anyways, by slowly edging around the sides and cautiously stepping towards the walls Tony had built, and then knocking timidly on them until Tony had no choice but to tear them down for him.

In the end though, he’s glad that he did. The kid had brought a certain warmth to the caverns of his soul, lighting the way with every gauche smile and mention to pop culture.

That’s not even to mention that Peter was smart. He was only a teenager, and every day he would walk into the lab and Tony would be so—proud. Yes, proud is the right word to describe it. Which, Tony knows rationally doesn’t make much sense, because the kid wasn’t really his. He didn’t teach him most of the stuff that Peter knows, and yet he’s vigorously impressed with him every single day.

(He does not tell Peter any of these things directly. Instead, Peter is given pats on the shoulder, proud smirks, and happily crinkled eyes hidden by high-tech aviator shades.)

And while Tony would go on and on about all the multiple reasons of why he’s proud of Peter Parker, he can’t because he would be speaking until his vocal cords were nothing but weak string. 

He does ramble about the kid sometimes, though. His best friend and his fiancée are subject to most of it, and both of which like to give him amused smiles and raised eyebrows. 

Every time, Rhodey will laugh and ask him; “You sure that’s not your kid?”

Every time, Tony has no answer for him but a defensive snort and a change of subject.

He doesn’t realize that Peter is really his kid until he’s fifty-two—almost fifty-three, and Peter is staying over at the Avengers Compound for a night after a particularly lengthy patrol.

“Mr. Parker is calling, Boss.” FRIDAY chimes from overhead. “Following your programmed instructions to ‘answer no matter what.’”

“Mr. Stark, am I able to come over tonight?” Peter’s voice bounces around the large garage. “It’s totally okay if you say no! Just, uh—Probably answer back quick if you’re gonna say no, because I’m actually halfway there and I think I’m losing blood. Don’t worry, though! I’m alright. Do you have a sewing kit by any chance?”

Tony, who was working late on some old car that had been sitting vacant in the garage for a few weeks now, slides out from under the vehicle and spits the metal washers from out of his mouth. “You’re killin’ me, kid. Karen, pull up Peter’s vitals.”

The vitals are brought up immediately, shown on holographics in front of him. While they were mainly stable, they were on the lower end of the spectrum, all things considered.

“Underoos, do I need to come get you?” Tony puts down his tools and stands up from the floor. His hands are covered in oily grime. 

“No, no! Just, uh... leave a window open, maybe?”

“Does the south-garage door work?”

“Um.” A moment of silence. “Yeah, that should work, actually.”

Tony wipes his hands off on a towel and quickly reaches for a first aid kit on the closest wall. “FRIDAY, you know what to do.”

Not even five minutes later, Peter is swinging through the garage door. He lands clumsily, and stumbles towards Tony. Ripping off his mask, he grins sheepishly with white lips. “Hey, Mr. Stark. I got stabbed. Oops, am I right?”

Closer up, he can further see the damage. Peter is holding his side, of which the suit is torn slightly and dripping red onto the floor. Tony curses and drags Peter to a seat, where he begins to stitch up the apparent stab wound. 

“You’re supposed to leave the knife in, kid. You’re lucky you didn’t get killed.” His eyes and hands are concentrated on making clean, even stitches. Meanwhile, his face is screwed up in the same exasperation that lies in his tone.

“‘M sorry,” Peter murmurs, his head hung, watching Tony work out of the corner of his eye. “I’m okay, though.”

“What if you weren’t?” Tony argues back fatherly, finishing the last stitch. He puts his hands down, staring at Peter with a raised eyebrow. “What if you weren’t okay? What would I do then, Pete?”

Peter stares back at him, his mouth agape with no response coming out. “I...”

“I can’t lose my kid,” Tony continues.

There is a pause.

Then, Tony raises his arms in a ‘what-can-you-do’ sort of shrug, in which he gives Peter an awkward grimace that more or less says: “It’s all out there now. It’s your turn to say something.”

Peter moves forward he’s stuck in glue, wrapping his arms around Tony. “I’m sorry,” He says again, sincerity lacing his words with a hint of something much deeper that scratches at his throat and makes him sound like he’s about to cry.

Tony, of course, carefully hugs him back, guiding the hug carefully around Peter’s wounds. If a few tears start to form in the corners of his own eyes, then he lets himself get away with it, because the most important thing is the kid in his arms that he now has a sliver of a right to call his own.

After that night, his future path of life has never been clearer.

Day after day, he works to build his family around him closer and more protected than before. The walls around him, once made of iron, remain strong; but now, they are moldable, so that if he chooses, he may let someone close.

He will have a home—not a house— with Pepper. One day, it will happen. He knows that for certain now. Because he cannot be like his father; it is not possible—because he is not broken.

Young Tony was broken—shards of a person that was messily and haphazardly put together with more broken pieces, then labeled as a cold and distant family that did not know love.

But now, Tony Stark is new. He is not fixed, no, but he is new. He is old pieces and new pieces that are welded sturdily together by love, acceptance, communication, but also the difficult things, such as the healing, the grief, and the worry that have caused him to be even stronger than before.

Tony Stark will build a home that does not need to be mended broken pieces. He will build a home of light, and a home of the healed and healing. 

Tony Stark is fifty-three, now. He is not done with life; but as he looks around at his family, with his spider-kid and his pen pal from Tennessee; with his fiancée, and with his best friend who has been there through it all— 

He is happy. And he is, finally, whole.

Fin.


End file.
